Rebels, Revolutions and Reflections
by Izumine Kisamine
Summary: America wakes up early one morning, and reflects on his long relationship with England. No plot whatsoever.


_**Yay! Time for some drabble! You know you love it… Anywho… I thought it was about time I tried to write in a different tense. I've never written like this before, and I won't lie, it made my head hurt. I hope it paid off! Characters are not mine, as ever… *pout* Enjoy~**_

_**X~X~X~X**_

The morning light is seeping through the curtains on the other side of the room, as I open my eyes slowly. The light blue walls are alarmingly bright, and it's taking me a while to adjust from the darkness of my own head. I finally manage to open my eyes properly and I fidget slightly, trying to sit up against the headboard. I think I've moved too much; you've started to stir from your sleep. I look down at you. You look adorable, clinging to my chest with that small smile on your face. Your blonde hair is sticking up all over the place, more than usual. You're always cute in the mornings; the light makes your pale skin shine. I watch on as you snuggle up closer, making me smile. I reach out and stroke the back of your neck, the way you used to when I was little. Whenever I was scared during a storm, you would pull me close, sit me in your lap and gently stroke my neck. I don't know why, but it would always calm me down. Following the line of your spine, I let my eyes wander down to your shoulder, to where your tattoo is. I remember when you got it done, back in your Punk days. I came home one day and you were out cold on the sofa after a "long night" as you liked to call them. I walked over to put a blanket over you; I didn't say anything about it until the next evening, when your hangover was mostly gone. Do you regret it? I like it, it's a really nice design; a red electric guitar leant on an amplifier with a splattered union flag in the background. Do you still play your guitar? I'll ask you when you wake up. I think it's up in the attic.

As I follow your spine down further, my hand comes to rest upon a scar. I gave you that, didn't I? The only blemish on your otherwise perfect skin. I hate myself as I remember how it happened. It was a battle during my revolution. You were the first one I cut down, but at the end of the battle, when the only ones standing were the American soldiers that were looting the bodies of the dead and dying. You came over, refusing to die. Stubborn as ever. You reached me and fell to your knees, the tears streaming down your face, mixing with the blood from a wound on your head. I felt so sorry for you, so that night I took you to my shack on the outskirts of a little forest village. I nursed your wounds and let you stay the night. I didn't care about what my superiors would say, well, _your_ superiors technically; there was just something about you. I think it was your eyes. Stunning. That night we loved, thinking that we would never see each other again, never _want_ to see each other again. I left before you woke up the next morning. Do you hate me for that? For leaving you? I know I hate myself for it, but at the time I thought that it was what was best for everyone.

Not wanting to feel too suicidal, I push those thoughts back to where they belong, right to the back of my head, and slide my hand down to the hem of your pyjama pants. Sorry, _trousers_. I play with the elastic, flicking it, remembering our first night together. First night after the revolution, anyway. It was four years ago, almost to the day, I'd come round for dinner (despite what other nations say, your cooking really isn't that bad.) I remember how shocked I was to see you transform from the shy, reserved character I was so used to, into the… Well, I don't want to blush.

During my daydreaming, you've shifted your head. Now it's tilted to one side and I can't help but stare. Your pale, kissable lips turned up in a content smile. Your long, dark lashes brushing on my chest, tickling when you fidgeted every so often. Your eyebrows (Notice how I don't use an adjective there? Not that I don't like your eyebrows.) gently furrowed. What are you dreaming of to make you look so concentrated? Are you dreaming? No, you don't have to dream, because what we have now is all we want, all we need.

It's perfect.

My daydreaming stops when you groan and your eyelids flutter open. You blink to adjst to the light, and then you just stare off at the far wall. What's so interesting? I don't mind though, I simply watch you, in your own little world. When you fall from planet Arthur and land back here with me you squeeze me tight and look up at me with those breathtaking eyes of yours. You know, whenever someone asks me what my favourite part of you is, I always say your eyes; so soulful, deep, full of emotion and in about twenty shades of green. I sit up further so I can see you better. "Mph…" You groan, "'Morning, love."

"G'morning, babe." I lean down and kiss you lightly on the forehead. You smile and stretch again, slide up next to me and snuggle up close. My arms wrap around you instinctively.

"How long've you been up?" You ask, turning to face me.

"Oh, not long." I smile.

"Alright. I better go wash." You sigh, getting up and walking over to the en-suite. When you disappear I return to my daydreaming. The other nations seem to think you don't care much for your body but I can say different. Your arms and legs were thin, but still have the slightest definition to them. And your chest and abs show small signs of a six pack. I stop imagining your body as it appears before me, casually leaning against the doorframe. You P.J. pants are loose and the left side has slipped down a little, exposing your dainty hip bone. "I'm taking a shower." You state. I nod, not getting what you mean at first. You raise an eyebrow at me, smiling.

…

I jump up from the bed and run to the shower to join you.

_**X~X~X~X~X**_

_**So, how was that? Not that bad, I hope. Oh well~ If you spot any mistakes, please let me know, I'm not used to writing in this tense, so sorry.**_

_**~TFV**_


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